Nothing but Road
by Idlewild
Summary: Anyone would see that sleep deprivation and car driving do not make a good combination, and John has tried his best to make Sherlock include himself in the category of "anyone". One-shot.


Not for the first time in his life, John wished he had a driver's license. True, it didn't happen often; in his youth, not being able do drive had merely let him off chauffeur duty and allowed him to drink at every party, and later on, whenever he needed to ride in a car it was either a cab or with someone who knew how to drive. Someone like Sherlock.

It was almost unfair, really. It was as though Sherlock knew everything. Of course this was actually far from the truth, as he was utterly ignorant of many fairly important things which John knew almost instinctively, but that was still the way it seemed. Probably because Sherlock made it seem that way, John mused as he stared at the inky road ahead. However, that was not the reason for his current regret.

Earlier in the week, Sherlock had been entreated to take a case in a very remote part of Norfolk, miles away from the nearest train station, and so they had rented a car and driven up from London. What Sherlock had initially dismissed as a "five or six at best" had turned into a perplexing and immensely muddy "eight as least" involving horses masquerading as cows, and had kept them up there for three days. During that time, Sherlock had slept a grand total of perhaps two hours – not that John was counting. Anyone would see that sleep deprivation and car driving do not make a good combination, and John had tried his best to make Sherlock include himself in the category of "anyone", to no avail whatsoever. As a result, they were now heading down an almost completely deserted country road at ten in the night, and if John could have taken the wheel, he would have.

He threw a furtive glance at his companion, but even with a three-day backlog of bed rest Sherlock was infuriatingly observant.

'I'm fine, John,' he growled, for at least the fourth time that day.

'Sure, yeah, splendid,' John replied drily. 'Mind if I…'

'Yes,' Sherlock interrupted, batting his hand away from the radio. John sighed and resumed his perusal of their headlight beams.

Ten-odd minutes later, the small car made an alarming sort of swerving motion, its left-side tyres making a racket on the gravel along the side of the road before it righted itself. John sat bolt upright, exclaiming 'Sherlock! Focus!'

'I am,' Sherlock lied, and John could tell that he was actually aware of the untruth of his statement himself.

'If you do that again, I'll make you stop the car, all right?'

Sherlock simply shrugged. He was looking absolutely haggard now that John was observing him directly. His face was sallow and even thinner than usual; of course he had been off food as well as sleep, even though John had tried to ply him with fruit at all available moments. John looked at his watch and calculated a remaining drive of at least one and a half hours. This was not going to end well.

The next time Sherlock nodded off, John was prepared for it and grabbed the wheel to prevent uncontrolled veering – luckily, as the headlights of another car were just zipping past them.

'Sherlock! You'll get us killed like this! Now stop being so bloody stubborn and pull over!'

'I can't stop here, there's nothing but road. Can your overprotectiveness wait until we get to a petrol station or something? Preferably a village?'

'No.' That was what John internally referred to as his command voice, and it had been known to be occasionally effective even on Sherlock. Now turned out to be such an occasion.

'Fine,' he sighed as he selected a wide, flat section of roadside under the canopies of a copse of beeches-or-possibly-aspen and put the car in park.

'Thank you,' John said with real gratitude in his voice. 'Now take a nap.'

Sherlock scoffed as though he considered the concept of naps to be too far beneath him for words. Then he yawned widely, throwing a hand over his mouth more out of manners than in an attempt to conceal it. John smiled but couldn't keep from yawning as well.

Unbuckling his seat belt, Sherlock found a knob at the base of his seat with which he proceeded to turning it into a recliner. He then rolled it back as far as it would go and extended his legs as he lay down. John would have been fine just leaning his head against the window, but this appeared far too comfy not to mimic.

When he was finished figuring out the various handles on his seat, he found Sherlock had already closed his eyes. His face was turned slightly to the left, still and relaxed in a way John had only seen it a handful times before. It was as though Sherlock had three settings – on, off and meditative – and while he was frequently seen supine of the sofa with his eyes shut, that was really just another version of frantic activity: mind without body. This was the rare off-mode, more body without mind, and John belatedly realised that he was staring. That could not in any way be construed as normal behaviour, and he quickly forced himself to stop and do something useful instead.

Laying down on his side against the angled backrest, he reached into the back seat for his jacket. His hand found Sherlock's coat as well, and he reeled it in and carefully covered his sleeping friend with it. Under a blanket as good as that, maybe he wouldn't wake until morning, and heaven knew he needed the rest. He looked more dead than asleep with his wan features cast into relief by the weak glow of a nearby road light.

John pulled his own jacket over himself and curled up on the makeshift bed. If he was still looking at Sherlock when he joined him in the world of sleep, then he chose to overlook it.

* * *

******Dislaimer:** Don't act like Sherlock. He can be extraordinarily stupid for being such a genius! Read chironsgirl's comment, it really made me stop and think.

**A/N:** This is another random fit of inspiration that happened to pour out onto paper. Please please review!


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